


The Tiger burns

by nightwindcreations



Series: Her Father's Eyes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Mary, BAMF Mycroft, Brotherly Love, F/M, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Has A Heart, Mycroft-centric, Other, Parentlock, Protective Mycroft, Torture, don't mess with the people Mycroft Holmes cares about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwindcreations/pseuds/nightwindcreations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran may not be as dead as Sherlock believes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: the meeting

He passed a manila folder to the woman across from him, his face expressionless. 

She opened it, her eyebrow raised. Her eyes went dark with anger when she turned the page, her breathing grew unsteady with barely concealed rage the more she read. Without a word she nodded her head. 

“If you are successful with this task, I will pay you quite handsomely and I will erase your past, entirely. If you fail, though…” he let his voice trail off. 

“If I fail” she answered coldly “you will promise to provide for my husband and daughters” 

He raised a perfect eyebrow slightly, she graced him with a meaningful look and answered his unspoken question,  
"yes, i said 'daughters' they are both under my care, they are both mine" 

He nodded; they shared a look that said everything.

“You understand, my brother is not to hear of this, from anyone” 

Her curt nod was all the answer he needed. 

She stood and left without another word, all he needed to do now was to wait for the phone call that she had completed the mission, or that she had died in the attempt.  
not that he doubted her ability, but if she failed he had a back-up plan that would eliminate the problem and insure the safety of the people he cared about. As it stood he was cursing the imbeciles that had caused him to call in favors and promise more, because they couldn't contain a threat. 

Why had they allowed a politician to find out about one prisoner, a prisoner that didn't exist due to a criminal genius.


	2. success

Mycroft Holmes walked down the hallway, his distraction not evident on his face, or the set of his feet.  
Only Anthea could see it in the way his eyes shifted to the right every few paces. He was trying to decide on the best course of action. should he tell Sherlock and let him take part in this, or leave him in the dark? Anthea couldn’t help the vicious smile that graced her lips; she would school her expression into her pleasant, charming, competent, and somewhat amused mask when she and Mycroft weren’t alone. But for now; in a building that wasn’t there, walking halls that didn’t exist, peering through a one-way that wasn’t real, to see a man that was dead, with one of the most dangerous men in the world, there was no need to pretend she wasn’t looking forward to this. After all Mycroft would know even if she tried to hide it. He turned his head and allowed himself a moment for all of his masks to drop. His smile mirrored hers; it was a hungry look, with a dark edge, bloodthirsty excitement coursed through both of them.

They stopped at the end of the hallway, and looked through the one-way. The doctor they had hired was walking around the man, checking to see how the injuries were faring. Mycroft nodded, his eyes lit with approval at his PA, nodding at the man’s efficiency. He knew why he was there, and why the drugged man on the table was. He knew what the other man had done to draw the attention of the two standing in the hallway.

Mycroft had been concerned about him, on paper at least, when Anthea had included his file among the rest of the doctors he had requested for this position. He is a compassionate man with unquestionable moral character, a man of ethics and a generally pleasant demeanor. Everything in the doctor’s file speaks of a man that will do the “right thing” regardless of the consequences.

That would be the reason that Anthea added his file. He is the kind of man that has such a strong moral compass, and a drive to do the right thing, that he would keep the man on the table alive no matter who he was or what was done to him. Mycroft nodded, he could imagine the man on the other side of the glass was John Watson 20 years older. He wasn’t addicted to adrenalin, as John is, but he had the same strength of character and sense of purpose, he was no stranger to the evils men could inflict on others, he would do whatever was needed of him.

“Ice Man” James Moriarty had called him, yet even the ice man would endeavor to avoid civilian casualties, especially children. Not just for the political upheaval it would cause but because, though he would never admit to it, he had a soft spot for children. They were open and inquisitive, they would ask about things if they didn’t understand, instead of pretending. They were open books and they enjoyed life, and had a sense of wonder, that fascinated him. Had he been a different type of man, and had he been in a different position, he could see raising two, or three, or even more, of his own. As it was, he has a niece that can fill in for what he himself will never have. A niece that, his captive had tried to murder. For that, he would pay dearly.

He had erased every trace of the woman “Mary Watson” used to be, and every trace of the real “Mary Morstan” including the instillation of a new headstone, anyone looking would find an infant named Michael, her brother. She had requested that, an elegant solution no one would ever be able to prove she was anyone other than Mary Watson. He even altered the DNA records to indicate her lineage. He was pleased to note how thorough she had been when she assumed the name. The real Mary had died in a car accident, alongside her parents, with no living family to question her identity. The only person that ever visited the grave was the woman that became her. A fact that no one would question now, as officially it was her brother’s.

His eyes trained back on the unconscious man, strapped to the hospital bed. He couldn’t bring himself to blame Mary for the injuries she had caused, when she found him. She did have to make it look like he had died. Admittedly Mycroft had helped with changing the paperwork to show that he had died in an apparent botched terrorist attack that the Terrorist cell that he was found in, at least according to the report, had unexpectedly exploded because of the bombs they were planning on using against a famous politician, was pure coincidence. Even he was happy to admit that Mary had pulled that off brilliantly, causing the explosion and planting evidence that Moran was one of the bodies that had been recovered. It had been an elegant solution to multiple problems, Moran, a terrorist attack, and even ridding the world of a small but potentially dangerous terrorist cell.

He opened the door and strode in, his coolly indifferent mask fitting comfortably across his face again. “Dr. Osborne,” he said to the older man “when do you predict him to awaken?”

“there really is no way to say, but I doubt it would be more than a few hours” the doctor said “of course I would like to keep an eye on him for a week or two to assure he heals completely”

Mycroft tilts his head slightly “of course” he purred, “take all the time you need” the doctor nodded curtly, he knew enough of the story to keep the man alive and in a drug induced coma until he healed. He was a good man, and after Moran recovered, his job would be complete. Knowing what Moran had done to Sherlock and Karen, let alone Rebecca, was enough to prevent him having moral concerns about what could, or would happen to the captive. Even knowing that, Mycroft was not comfortable with anyone other than himself and Anthea knowing what was going to go on in this building, because Moran was going to tell him everything, even if it had to be cut out of him, inch by inch. Mycroft wasn't willing to risk anyone else hearing about what had happened to his little brother, and niece, or the woman that means so much to both of them, even though she had died before he could meet her, he would protect her.


	3. pondering

Mycroft sat in his office; he would begin to question Moran tomorrow. In his mind he worked over several scenarios, he couldn’t decide whether or not to tell his brother about the captive. 

If he didn’t tell Sherlock the chance of him ever finding out was remote at best, the only people that know Moran is still alive are; Mary, Anthea, the doctor, Mycroft and Moran himself. 

Mary would never tell, and she was good enough at hiding what she was and what she did that she wasn’t an issue, adding to that, her concern for Sherlock and Rebecca, she would never say a word and he likely couldn’t deduce it from her.

Mycroft could easily hide what he knew and what he had done; he would never let Sherlock know, unless it was a specific decision.   
The doctor he could ignore, the likelihood that the man would ever meet his brother was remote, and he didn’t have any real information to let slip. So the secret was safe with him.

As for Moran, he would never be in a position to tell Sherlock anything. He would not walk out of that building alive. His own allies thought him already dead, and they weren’t far wrong. Mycroft would coldly exact his revenge, glean every piece of information to be gained and then he would alleviate the threat to the people he cared about. Something Magnussen had failed to realize, Mycroft’s so called “pressure points” were the things that would turn him into a ruthless killer to protect. 

Anthea, she was the weakest link in this. That thought was almost amusing. That his personal PA, the woman that knew everything about Mycroft Holmes, and that Mycroft trusted with every detail of his life was the one most likely to inadvertently give Sherlock the information that Moran was alive, or that Mycroft was the one that took care of him.  
Mycroft thought of every scar on Sherlock’s skin, while he looked through the stack of pictures in the file on his desk. He added the list of pictures he had of Sherlock’s scars. He didn’t know if his brother knew he had those, but he certainly didn’t know about the pile in front of him. This stack Sherlock would never know about, let alone see. Not that he would ever want to; he probably already knew every one of Karen’s scars. Mycroft cataloged every mark, and compared it to every mark on his brother’s body. One mistake Moran made, that he would not was, Moran needed them able to walk. Mycroft was going to sever the Achilles tendon. That would likely be one of the first things he did. Moran tortured them in a different room from where he kept them, and he had his guards bring them from their cell to the torture room. Mycroft had no such need, nor desire. By the end of the first day of questioning, Moran would no longer be able to walk on his own, nor would he be capable of using his arms. Contrary to what most people believed, Mycroft wasn’t an evil man. He would prefer to simply execute Moran, the man was too dangerous to allow him to live, but there was information he needed. Both his brother’s safety and well being, and the safety and well being of the nation were depending on acquiring the information that only Moran held. 

This was the difficulty, Sherlock would be an asset in acquiring the information, and seeing the threat the man posed to himself and his daughter neutralized could be beneficial in helping him heal. The problem was the word could, because there was a possibility that seeing the man again could set Sherlock’s recovery back, or that Sherlock’s desire for revenge would override his good sense and leave him worse than before. The problem was, as always, Sherlock was volatile, and unpredictable. Even if seeing Moran’s dead body would assist his recovery, there was nothing to stop that from also causing a relapse. For a moment Mycroft wished there was someone else he could speak to about this. Perhaps he would ask Anthea her opinion, though doubtful it would be anymore insightful than his own. The only person that could assist him was the one person that he absolutely could not ask. 

He smiled, maybe there was one person he could speak to, after all, he simply needed to organize his thoughts, more than to listen to advice. Yes this could work; he had one person that he could discuss his concern with, who would never be able to speak about it. He looked over the medical report John had written and the post-mortem report he was looking at, as well as his own observations, to determine what the first injuries his brother and Karen had suffered at the hands of his captive. Laying out both sets of pictures, of the scaring pattern on the bottom of their feet and ankles, he nodded. He called the car around, placing copies of the pictures in another file.   
Standing in the cell looking at Moran strapped to a table, with a feeding tube through his nose and IVs hooked to his arm. Moran’s eyes followed him as he walked around the room. It was obvious what Moran wanted to do, based on the looks he was giving Mycroft. He obviously didn’t realize that Mycroft was enjoying the exchange. Mycroft drew a camera out of his pocket and took pictures of Moran’s feet. He handed the camera silently to Anthea. 

Mycroft gauged where his captives eyes would be drawn to the most to hang four pictures up at those spots, one of Sherlock’s foot, one of Karen’s and one of each of Moran’s. He stood at Moran’s feet, Anthea gripped the man’s right foot. Mycroft referred to the picture of Sherlock’s right foot as he marked every scar on Moran, he then marked the spots on Moran’s ankle that matched the scars on his brother’s ankle. He then marked the picture cataloging every injury he was going to cause to the man on the table. He then hung the picture of Sherlock’s foot on the wall behind the man, the picture of Sherlock’s ankle underneath; next to those he added the pictures of Moran’s foot and ankle.  
Moving to the other side of the man he repeated the process with his left foot, marking the scars from Karen’s foot on the skin of the man that had caused them. After he posted Karen’s pictures he walked back between them. Moran was trying not to show his fear, but it was a lost cause. Mycroft stood considering the pictures silently, with a slight flourish he added a mark to each of the pictures of Moran. Turning he walked back to the man, not reacting visibly to the sweat pouring off of the man’s face. With his pen he marked each of Moran’s Achilles tendons. He then turned and left the room, having never spoken a word in the man’s presence.


	4. Chapter 4

He waited another day before he started. He walked back into the darkened room, and injected Moran with the exact mix the man had used on Sherlock and Karen. Anthea stood in the hall watching from the window, Mary was next to him. He had decided to include her in the process; she had proven her loyalty to Sherlock and Rebecca repeatedly, as well as her ability to do what needed to be done to keep them safe. Both of them were wearing surgical scrubs, and face shields, they were there to show Moran the mistakes he had made, no point risking even a moment of their own health. 

“So you know, I normally abhor getting my own hands dirty” Mycroft said coldly, to no one in particular “but in this case I thought it best to give it my personal attention”   
Mycroft picked up the knife and slid it home behind the man’s right heel, slicing the Achilles tendon neatly in two. He then set to work on the foot, he cut open the skin of the base of the foot. “Would you care to observe this?” he asked Mary “there will likely not be many chances to see a healthy Plantar Fascia on a live patient.” His voice cold and clinical 

Mary nodded and moved around to Moran’s feet “interesting” she said “the medial cutaneous nerve is displaced. It should run along here she said touching the connection of the bone, instead it is too far forward. It’s fascinating.” Mycroft nodded looking over her shoulder 

She leaned in with the scalpel and scraped the fibrous external structure of the nerve, Moran screamed again, no one paid him any mind. 

After they severed the entire planter fascia, Anthea brought their tea to them, as another of Mycroft’s most trusted minions sprayed down the room and its occupant. They allowed the man to drift in and out of consciousness as they spoke.

“Should we bring Sherlock into the process?” Mycroft voiced what both were thinking, more for the benefit of the room’s other occupant. 

“I don’t know, if we do he could gain some real closure but it could also open old wounds, best left covered” Mary replied thoughtfully “also the fact that he thought Moran dead, if he believes that you were doing it to protect him and Rebecca he will probably understand, but if he thinks you were trying to hide it from him it would not go well for you. The other problem is that if he sets his sight on revenge it would not be good for him. Let alone Rebecca” 

He nodded his head, “if we do bring him in we should do it now, and allow him to watch but not participate” Mycroft replied thoughtfully 

“Allow him to see Moran once, before we kill him, than allow him to see the body.” Mary suggested cautiously 

Mycroft thought about that it seemed like the best alternative, if they were to let him anywhere near Sebastian Moran. They listened to Moran whimper in fear and pain, both relaxed as they spoke. Normally neither of them was the type to relish the pain of another person but in this case both were willing to make an exception. They weren’t as sadistic as the man strapped to the table, but they were far more motivated that Moran would not live to see the light of day, than he had ever been. This was their main advantage. They wanted him dead, they wanted the threat to Sherlock and Rebecca eliminated. Moran was living on borrowed time, just long enough for them to enact their revenge. After that they would recreate every injury that Karen and Sherlock had suffered, possibly twice over because of the threat he had posed to Rebecca. The fact that they would both rather do that posthumously meant that the man would not have the opportunity to escape, even with help. 

“One month” Mycroft voiced for both of them, “he will be dead inside one month. Shall we continue on the other foot?” he asked her   
~~~~~

He climbed the stairs to his brother’s flat, he could hear the clear ring of Rebecca’s voice, if he tried he would be able to make out every word she said, but he wasn’t going to stop and listen when he would be in the room in a few steps. Or perhaps not, he thought as the door burst open and a dark ball of energy came flying out of the door and into his waiting arms. He smiled softly as he lifted her off of her feet and swung her around. Placing her gently on the ground, she was getting to big to be carried like a baby. A fact she would tell anyone that would listen, since her fifth birthday a few months previous. Mary had done an admirable job of taming her curls into twin plaits at either side of her head, ending at the back of her neck and the curls flowing gently from the ends. Anthea reached for the girl as soon as Mycroft set her down, both girls giggling as Anthea pulled out the customary presents that Mycroft always brought his niece. This time it was a hoodie with a character that Anthea assured him the little girl adored, one Doc McStuffing, or some such nonsense. He watched the bright and vivacious child, which had bloomed from the timid toddler, clutch the garment to her chest and giggle as if it were the greatest treasure in the universe. His heart lightened and the weariness of the past weeks lifted from his shoulders at the sound. Sherlock stood at the open door a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched his daughter play. The brothers shared a look that spoke volumes. 

“Should I ask Mrs. Hudson to mind Rebecca while we talk, brother?” Sherlock asked 

“Why do I always have to go as soon as you do something interesting?” Rebecca pouted “I’m not a baby anymore. Why can’t I stay, papa?” the little girl begged 

“Because this isn’t going to be nearly as interesting as whatever Mrs. Hudson is baking right now. It smells divine” Mycroft answered teasingly, knowing that the little girl shared her father’s sweet tooth. As much as Sherlock teased him about his diet, sweets were far more the younger man’s weakness. Rebecca sniffed the air, and decided that maybe her uncle’s logic had enough merit to warrant further investigation.

“Ok”, she said, “promise that if you decide anything fun you will tell me?” 

“I promise” Mycroft said 

“Why don’t we show her your new Doc. McStuffins hoodie” Anthea piped up helpfully 

The little girl ran down the stairs, Anthea followed close behind.

“I think I am exhausted from simply watching her run about” Mycroft said flatly to Sherlock 

“Imagine how I feel” John quipped from behind Sherlock as Mycroft entered the flat “I have to chase after Rebecca, Sherlock, Mary and now a baby that has learned how to crawl” 

“Sherlock, first let me be clear, you and Rebecca are in no danger. Moran is still alive, for the moment” Mycroft started trying to keep his voice smooth and gentle for Sherlock’s sake. It wasn’t enough to keep him from going pale and looking slightly ill. Mycroft and John guide him to his chair and help him to sit without falling. 

“What the hell Mycroft” John shouted at him “you can’t just spring something on him like that” 

“Rebecca?” Sherlock asked his eyes contained everything he wanted to convey 

“She is safe” Mycroft reassured “when I found out that Moran had survived, I sent my best men to locate and capture him. Say the word Sherlock and he will be dead before we can leave this room” 

“What if he escapes, again?” Sherlock asks “He can’t; can he? What have you done to him?” His voice sounded more normal, as he looked over his brother deducing everything he needed to know. “You want me involved.” Sherlock stated “no, not quite, but you want me present” Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.


End file.
